


Needle Cherry

by Mia (outofthedeadland)



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Blood, Body Horror, Castration, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Forced Orgasm, Gang Rape, Gore, HYDRA Trash Party, Hurt No Comfort, Mutilation, Other, Rape, Snark, Torture, horrible things happen to your faves and there is no fluff whatsoever, not the recovery-focused shit you guys tend to write nowadays, this is old-school HTP
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-10
Updated: 2020-09-10
Packaged: 2021-03-06 19:55:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,254
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26394496
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/outofthedeadland/pseuds/Mia
Summary: Basically what it says on the tin: the one where the Black Widow gets gang-raped. (Originally posted in 2014.)
Relationships: Winter Soldier/Natasha Romanoff
Comments: 8
Kudos: 78





	Needle Cherry

**Author's Note:**

  * For [spacestationtrustfund](https://archiveofourown.org/users/spacestationtrustfund/gifts).



> Set sometime during CATWS. Seriously, mind the tags: graphic, explicit, on-screen rape happens.

“Get her other leg,” someone said. A hand grabbed her ankle, and she felt herself being lifted—carried, set down roughly on a flat surface. Her head smacked against something solid, and she groaned.

“She waking up?”

“Been long enough,” someone else said. Natasha groaned again and forced her eyes open.

“Well, hello there, princess,” said Rumlow, leering at her.

Shit.

She was in the back of a truck, she could tell that much by the rumbling of the road and the heavy metal door in the back. There were two men holding each of her arms above her head, and another two holding her legs in place. Her boots and socks had been removed, as well as her external weapons; Rumlow himself had a Glock in one hand, pointed at her.

Her mouth tasted like bile. Her entire body ached.

“Hey, boys,” Natasha managed. Her head throbbed. How many men were in the truck? She could see five—the four pinning her limbs, plus Rumlow—and there must be a driver. Normally that would be nothing she couldn't handle, but—

“How’d you like that little roofie we slipped you?” said Rumlow. He sounded almost sweet; the gun was still aimed leisurely at her chest. “Nasty little drug, that. We were developing it for Captain America, so no one knew what it’d do to unenhanced people like you.” He smiled. “Care to share with the class?”

Of course he wouldn’t have known. That was a relief, that one of her secrets was still safe.

“Oh, Brock, don’t you know how these things go?” Natasha said. She’d been stripped of her obvious weapons, but that didn’t really matter; she was her own favorite weapon. “I have information you want, you have to offer me something in return. My life, or amnesty, something like that.”

Rumlow snorted. “Princess, not that I don’t appreciate the lesson, but we don’t want information from you. We’ve already got the information. You’re just here so we can have some fun.”

“I love fun,” Natasha said.

Her usual sultry smirk probably didn’t come across as effectively when her entire face felt like one painful bruise, but she did her best. She tried to crane her neck to look towards the front of the truck, hoping to see the driver, and someone behind her grabbed hold of her hair and yanked, hard enough that her head slammed back against the metal floor.

Fuck. That stung.

“That’s no way to treat a lady,” Natasha said. She licked her lips, tasting blood, fresh and dried.

“You’re no lady,” one of the others said. Rollins, wasn’t it? “Right now, you’re just a bitch.”

“Real original.” Natasha rolled her eyes. “And a slut and a whore and a cunt and the manifestation of your mommy issues, is that right?”

“If you insist,” Rumlow said. “Soldier, get her clothes off.”

Soldier?

Oh, fuck.

Natasha gritted her teeth as another man in black fatigues moved around to stand in front of her. He knelt between her spread legs; his eyes were emotionless behind the mask covering the lower half of his face.

“Soldat, don’t listen to them,” Natasha said, in Russian, but he ignored her.

He cut her blouse deftly down the front with a handheld dagger, and the men pinning her arms pulled the ruined fabric away. “Vostok,” Natasha tried, “semya, Soyuz, fucking _odnu minuty_ —” but the Americans must have changed the trigger words, because he only moved to slice off her jeans, leaving thin red scratches down the tops of her thighs. Not deep enough to draw blood, but enough to sting.

Her clothes were removed, leaving her in her bra and shorts. “I was hoping for something sexier,” Rumlow said, glancing down at her underwear.

“This is practical. I _was_ working, you know,” Natasha said. She kept her tone light, trying to conceal the way her thoughts were racing.

It was obvious that they were going to try to rape her. That was nothing she couldn’t handle. It might even put her at an advantage. But until then she hadn’t honestly believed that the Soldier had been working for them. _With_ them, maybe; she hadn’t even known for certain that the Soldier was still alive after the USSR had folded in on itself like a card tower, but—he’d been loaned out enough times that she could see it happening. But he’d never failed to respond to the trigger words, which meant that HYDRA must have found some way to wipe him and start over.

There was no way he would remember her. That, she was used to. But she’d been banking on his remembering Russia.

“Well, you’re off the clock,” Rumlow said.

One of the men behind him snickered. “And on the cock.”

“Shut up,” said Rumlow, but he laughed. He fisted his hand in Natasha’s underwear and yanked it down, then ripped the fabric apart when it caught on her thighs.

Several of the men wolf-whistled. Natasha wiggled her hips, smirking at them.

At least she could deny them the satisfaction of seeing her afraid.

“Carpet matches the drapes,” someone said. “Guess you’re a natural redhead, Widow.”

“Aww, did you think I was lying? I never lie.”

“All right, enough chit-chat,” Rumlow said. He stuck one hand roughly between her legs, prying apart her labia and shoving the tip of one finger into her. “Jesus, you couldn’t even try to get wet for me?”

“Sorry, did you think this was turning me on?” Natasha said. The incredulity wasn’t hard to fake.

“Your job _is_ being a glorified prostitute,” Rumlow said. "We extrapolated." He stepped back. “Get her wet, Soldier.”

She was expecting him to spit on her, was braced for it, but instead he went down between her legs and licked across her cunt, sucking hard on her clit before licking again, tongue flicking expertly.

Natasha was used to redirecting her thoughts away from dangerous places. She could handle something like this, being so exposed. She tightened her jaw and focused on inhabiting her body as it was, not thinking about the last time she’d been in this position, or the last time the Soldier had fucked her, or the last time she’d seen him. The makeup had been a nice touch to convince Rogers that the danger they were facing was real, and that she was someone he could trust; she didn’t want anyone knowing she didn’t scar. It would probably only encourage them to get the knives out and put them to use. As it was, they almost definitely didn’t want to leave marks: they'd barely scratched her when stripping off her clothing.

Plausible deniability.

She tried to ignore the deft way the Soldier was licking at her, but she couldn’t. Faking arousal was infinitely easier than avoiding becoming aroused, no matter how much she bit her tongue and squirmed away from the soft heat of his mouth. She could feel wetness sliding down towards her asshole, saliva or something else, she didn’t know, didn't want to know.

Spitting on her would've been the usual route. But this was a different sort of degradation.

She could handle it.

Finally, the Soldier lifted his head. Rumlow huffed, seeing the slickness between her thighs.

“Good work,” he said, giving the Soldier a manly slap on the shoulder.

The Soldier probably didn’t even know what he was being told to do. Natasha felt an angry coil of revulsion tighten in her stomach.

“Get her bra off,” Rumlow added.

Natasha couldn’t help but laugh when the men holding her fumbled with undoing the clasp, the straps getting caught on her arms as the foam cups folded awkwardly. Eventually, one of them grabbed a knife and snapped the strap, then flung the ruined bra across the truck.

“Aw,” Natasha said, pouting. The air was cold on her exposed nipples; already she was getting goosebumps. “That was expensive.”

“Shut your mouth already,” said Rumlow. He unzipped the front of his tac pants, reaching into the slit in his boxers and pulling out his hard dick. “Spread her legs a little more.”

He knelt between her thighs, rubbing the head of his dick against her opening, getting everything slicked up. “Surprised she’s not trying to negotiate,” one of the other guys commented. A few of them had their hands on their own erections, and one or two were opening their flies as well.

Natasha scoffed. “You wouldn’t accept my terms.”

“Yeah?” Rumlow said as he pushed his cock halfway inside her. “What’re those?”

Natasha bared her teeth at him. “You let me go, and I cut off your dicks and make you eat them.”

Rumlow shoved all the way into her, pressing his pelvis up against her hips with a grunt. “Yeah, I’ll pass.”

It hurt, of course: even when she wasn’t trying to tighten up against the intrusion, forcing something into her vagina was painful. But Natasha could handle pain. She could handle humiliation; all of that was nothing new. It was boring more than anything else—a waste of time she could be using doing something more useful.

Like killing all of them. Slowly and painfully.

Natasha focused on picturing scratching out Rumlow’s eyes with her fingernails, digging into the socket to pry out the eyeball and squish it in her fist. No, she thought. That'd be too easy. She’d shred his tongue with her hands first, then go for his eyes, with the blood and flesh still under her nails.

Rumlow pulled his cock out and then back in, nails digging into the scratches on her thighs, and Natasha looked away from him, like she was bored. She imagined peeling the skin off his face, strip by thin strip, and pouring something acidic on it while he writhed and screamed with his mangled tongue.

“Fuck,” Rumlow grunted. “Got a tight cunt, Romanoff. Been a while since someone’s fucked it?”

The others laughed. “That’s what a reputation as a frigid bitch gets you,” someone commented.

“I don’t exactly go around asking to be raped,” Natasha said frostily. She pictured carving open his stomach and tearing out a length of his intestines, wrapping it around his throat and strangling him while he choked and coughed up blood.

“Oh, please,” said Rumlow. He flicked one of her nipples, then the other. “With these tits? Bet it’d be awesome to fuck them.”

“Hey, I volunteer,” one of the guys said.

“I don’t wanna stare at your pasty ass while I’m fucking her pussy, Anders, shut the fuck up,” Rumlow snapped. He kept thrusting his hips; Natasha did nothing, focused on being motionless and emotionless, like a dead fish.

The lack of interest didn’t seem to bother Rumlow. “Gotta get tested after this,” he grunted, pounding into her even harder. “Who knows what kinda diseases you have—spreading ’em five days a week—”

It was honestly disappointing. Rumlow spewed the same sort of disgusting misogynistic bullshit in the locker rooms, or on STRIKE missions. Natasha had learned to tune it out the same way she tuned out everything.

“So fucking tight,” Rumlow repeated, picking up the pace.

“Hurry up,” one of the other guys called out. Around half of them were jerking off with their free hands now; they might not last that long, what with that, Natasha thought, calculating. “Don’t try to be some macho man, Rumlow, c’mon, let the rest of us have a go at her.”

Rumlow laughed, but he doubled down on his efforts, sweating and grunting until he finally jerked his hips and stilled. “Fuck yeah,” he huffed, pulling out and smacking his dick on her stomach. Natasha could feel the semen leaking out of her; she let the disgust show on her face. Rumlow sneered, and she sneered right back at him.

The other men cheered. Only the Soldier was silent, standing in the corner with his gun trained on her.

He wouldn’t have any qualms about shooting her if she moved. Natasha made a face at the feeling of more semen sliding down her thighs, quickly growing tacky now that it’d been exposed to oxygen.

“Got a world-class cunt,” Rumlow said. "Shame you gotta act like one too." He stood, tucking his dick back into his tac pants. “Who’s next?”

“Shit, I’ll take her,” one of the guys said. He was bulky, bald; his dick was shorter than Rumlow’s, but thicker. Natasha didn’t anticipate the feeling of having it forced into her.

Not that she was enjoying any of this.

There was a certain perverse pleasure in knowing exactly what kind of men they were. The boasting machismo was to be expected; Natasha knew what she looked like, how chauvinistic heterosexual men tended to react to her, but this was a step further. There was a certain element of satisfaction in knowing exactly how disgusting they were.

“New rule,” Rumlow announced, as the other guy crouched down and pushed the head of his cock between her labia. “First one to make her come gets a prize.”

“Oh, yeah? What prize’ve you got that’d beat that pussy?”

“That’s for me to know and you to find out, Rollins,” said Rumlow smugly. He clapped the back of the guy currently raping her. “Get movin’, Harris.”

“Aye aye,” Harris said, and got moving. Natasha let her head fall back and pictured biting off both of his pinkish ears, leaving scrapes across his shiny bald scalp, slicing his nose down the middle and shoving the handle of a knife into the cartilage until it mashed into his brain.

Harris fumbled for her clit with his right hand and poked it a few times, and Natasha bit back a hysterical laugh. She couldn’t orgasm from penetration alone, and only sometimes from clitoral stimulation; there was no way this clumsy meathead was going to get her anywhere close. Harris grunted animalistically as he fucked her, and Natasha rolled her eyes at the ceiling.

She could cut off their balls and crush them underfoot. She’d done it before, to other men; it was always satisfying. She would tie them up, upside down, strung up from the ceiling, naked, on display. She would start with Harris: grip his testicles in one hand and saw at them with the knife in her other while he flailed and screamed around the gag she’d stuffed in his mouth. Her own underwear, probably. After she'd used it to wipe herself off.

Give him a taste of his own medicine.

It wouldn’t have to take long, but she’d drag it out a little. Then she’d drop the bloody, hairy lumps of flesh and stomp on them with the heel of her boot, making sure she was in the eyeline so Harris could see. Fuck his manhood; it wasn’t like he’d be alive to use his balls after Natasha was through with them.

She’d leave Rumlow for last. She’d go down the line, one by one. She’d get creative with it: use all the tricks and techniques she’d learned over the years. It was far from her first time in this sort of situation.

Rumlow would be panting in fear by the time she reached him. She wouldn’t start with the castration—oh no, that would be too easy. Instead, she’d grab his limp dick, twisting it in her hand until he howled.

Then she could press the very point of her knife against the slit of his urethra. Let him feel it, watch his face try its best to blanch in terror with all the blood rushing to his head from the position he was in. Push the knife's tip into his slit, fucking him with it, splitting him open until the spongy flesh was spurting blood. Spread open, like a star. Like a flower. Like her own abused cunt.

Then release his dick and grab his testicles, the knife in one hand, but really just using her hands—

She’d twist his balls until he screamed with the agony of it. She’d puncture the skin with her nails. She’d pull the hairs out, one by one. She’d bite—she’d leave teeth marks in the skin of his balls.

And then, when he was whimpering and sobbing and drooling on the floor by her feet, she’d pick up the knife. She’d make a clean cut: the whole sack, gone with one deft flick.

She would kneel on the filthy floor in front of his upside-down face, smeared with blood and drool and snot. Hi there, she’d say. She’d take out the gag, making a face at the saliva that gushed out when his jaw went slack.

Then she’d pick up the handful of flesh that had once been Rumlow’s testicles. And she’d hold his jaw open while she forced them into his mouth.

Then she’d make him chew and swallow, before she killed him.

Natasha snapped back to the present when Harris let out a low shout and shot his load inside her, then pulled out, red-faced and sweating. The other guys all whooped and cheered as Harris stood up, grinning.

Proud of himself. For getting to rape her, apparently.

What an accomplishment.

Rumlow folded his arms, smug as anything. “Next up,” he announced.

Natasha faked a yawn. There were only four men left, and at least one of them looked close to finishing already just from watching. There was no way Rumlow would order the Soldier to rape her as well.

Besides, she’d already been there, done that. The Soldier had been chemically castrated last time she’d checked. He couldn’t even get it up long enough to stick it in somebody.

The next guy who came forward was the one Rumlow had called Anders. That left Rollins and two others she didn’t recognize. Anders got his thumb under her clit and pulled it up before he entered her, and Natasha made a face at him.

“‘S how my girlfriend likes it,” he mumbled, looking almost embarrassed.

Natasha laughed at him, loud and mean. “Does your girlfriend know you rape women?”

“Shut up, bitch,” Anders said, flushing.

He wouldn’t last long. Natasha tuned out, fantasizing about stuffing a knife blade-first into his asshole and fucking him with it, then fisting him—with her gloves on, of course—in the bleeding and torn-open hole.

As expected, Anders didn’t last long, although to his credit he did rub his thumb over her clit a few more times before he came with a squeaky noise, twitching, mouth open. Natasha laughed again, even meaner this time, making her expression one of pure disgust. “Aww, I’m impressed you could even get it up,” she crooned, while Anders was still shuddering inside her. “From the sound of it, your balls haven’t even dropped yet.”

Rumlow and the others guffawed, and Anders scowled. “Shut up,” he snapped, pulling out and clambering away from her. Natasha snickered.

Three more. That was nothing: that was all in a day's work.

Rollins was next. His dick was thinner, but longer, and uncut. “Ooh, finally some variety,” Natasha said. “It gets so boring, being raped by Americans—they’re all circumcised.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Rollins ordered. Natasha laughed at him.

“It just means an extra layer for me to peel off when I skin you,” she said sweetly. She’d been hoping that the threat would diminish his erection some, but he didn’t seem to be flagging at all when he pushed inside and started moving.

The dried semen around her vulva and asshole was starting to itch. At least that was something else to focus on; she was nowhere near aroused enough to stay wet, so in some twisted way she could appreciate the amount of ejaculate in and around her vagina.

Of course there was no risk of pregnancy. Even Rumlow knew she’d had a hysterectomy—it was in her medical file—it had been before any of them had been born, of course, but _that_ part was need-to-know.

Except maybe the Soldier. He was older than he looked.

But of course he wouldn’t remember.

Rollins was still going, breathing heavily. Natasha wasn’t exactly impressed with his stamina, especially when he groped for her breasts and pinched her nipples, squeezing the flesh in his palms. “You’ve got great tits,” he said, which sounded like a sincere enough compliment that Natasha almost burst out laughing at the sheer incredulity of the whole situation. “Even if they’re plastic, just—really great.”

Natasha rolled her eyes and scrunched up her face, not bothering to put in any effort to look attractive. Her vagina was sore from the repeated pounding, she could feel each thrust against her cervix, and her arms had long since gone numb from the strained position they were in. Even though the bruises would heal rapidly—within a couple of hours, provided she was able to rest and drink enough water—she didn’t enjoy feeling like she’d been put through the wringer.

Fuck, and her mouth was parched. She didn’t even have enough saliva to spit at Rollins’s idiotic face.

Two more after Rollins, and now Rollins was pounding in her faster before stilling when he orgasmed, squeezing her breasts in his hands as she felt his dick pulsing inside her. Rollins pulled out while he was still coming, jerking his cock so that it sprayed a few spurts of semen across Natasha’s lower belly, then he stuffed his cock back inside her and kept moving, thrusting deep and hard.

“Hey, c’mon, you had your turn,” one of the guys complained, and Rollins laughed, groaning as he pulled out, still tugging his cock. One last spurt of semen landed on her pubic bone, and Natasha made a face of revulsion.

She had to force her body not to clench around the empty air now that she was exposed. The next guy lined himself up and thrust into her, grabbing one of her breasts, and Natasha made her eyes look as dead as possible.

Rollins was the tallest of all of them, but Natasha had the means to cut him down to size. Surely there was a sternal bone saw in the med kit that she could use—she’d shatter his patellae, lop off his legs at the knee, then string him up with the rest. Maybe remove his boots and stuff his ugly mouth full of his own feet before she replaced them with his castrated testicles...

The man raping her pinched her nipple, then dragged his hand down to where his dick was inside her, and rubbed around where they were joined. His fingers weren’t exactly nimble; it didn’t do much of anything in terms of arousal, but a hysterical laugh bubbled up in her throat, and Natasha tipped her head back so the hilarity didn’t escape.

Who would’ve thought that this little excursion would result in being gang-raped in the back of an unmarked van?

That was the sort of thing that happened in the stories people told to little fledgling spies to spook them into following the rules. Everybody “knew someone who knew someone,” after all. Natasha had had her fair share of instances where she’d used sex on a mission, as a job, even against her will. Her body was a tool in her arsenal. But she wasn’t too proud to admit she hadn’t been expecting this.

Not that she didn’t expect it from Rumlow and the rest. It was just that she hadn’t expected them to show their hand so soon.

And she hadn’t really anticipated getting caught.

Even her enhancements couldn’t resist a drug specifically designed for the sort of serum Captain America had, it turned out. The irony was palpable; Natasha could almost choke on it.

At least they hadn’t tried to put anything in her mouth. They weren’t entirely stupid, it seemed.

The man currently raping her was still massaging in the general area of her clit, which Natasha could already tell would be in her repertoire of hilarious stories to horrify herself with later. _And get this_ — _the fucking idiot couldn’t even get me off while he was raping me! I know! He couldn’t even find the clitoris!_

After what seemed like forever, but Natasha’s internal clock told her was only about four minutes, the guy cursed and she could feel the gush as he ejaculated, still thrusting and massaging her labia.

“Fuck, she’s gaping,” someone said—Harris, maybe. Rumlow whooped loudly.

Natasha faked another yawn.

Only one more.

The last guy approached her more tentatively. His dick was leaking a bit of pre-ejaculate from the tip, and he looked overwhelmed just by seeing her held down in front of him. “What, you look like you don’t rape women every day,” Natasha quipped, waggling her eyebrows. “First time, kiddo?”

That spurred him into action, and he thrust into her. “Oh, uh, fuck,” he muttered, shutting his eyes, then pulled out again and squeezed his dick, looking like he was trying not to go off right there.

“That’s it?” Natasha mocked. “Finally you get a chance to rape someone, and you can’t even last? Fucking pathetic, really.”

The guy gasped and yanked his hand off his dick, which bobbed and drooled even more pre-come. Natasha sneered at him. The anger she’d been keeping inside her was boiling up closer to the surface, amplified by the bruising pain between her legs and the numb tingling in her extremities.

“I bet this is your first time _ever_ ,” Natasha cooed, sticking her lip out. “Does mommy still tuck you in at night? Do you still sleep with a blankie? Do you wet the bed?”

His dick bobbed again, and he made a choking sound, then his cock was spurting come all across her thighs and stomach, even as he gasped, “No, no, _no_ —”

Natasha laughed as cruelly as she could, not letting up even when he grabbed the base of his dick and tried to stick it inside her before he went soft; he misjudged the angle, and his cock skidded across her hip bone, and she laughed even harder, stomach clenching.

Rumlow and the others were snickering. “Better luck next time,” Rumlow said, tousling the guy’s hair. “But I think that leaves us one short, Widow.”

“Aw, what a shame,” Natasha said flatly.

“A real shame, yeah.” Rumlow clucked his tongue. “Soldier, c’mon over here. Your turn.”

The Soldier obeyed, and Natasha’s heart sank.

It had been foolishly naïve of her, really, to assume that his situation was anything like how the Soviets had treated him. She knew that he’d been purchased by the Americans back before Communism fell to pieces, knew that he’d exchanged hands and been shipped off to the West to go live in Capitalism and decadence. Apparently that also meant he could get it up enough to rape her.

Foolishly naïve.

“If we had more time I’d make him fuck you in the ass,” Rumlow commented. The Soldier didn’t react. “But whatever. Go on, Soldier. Get your dick out.”

The Soldier got his dick out.

Well, that certainly answered the question of whether or not he could get an erection.

He was cut, Natasha remembered, and a glance confirmed it. She’d had him inside her before; at the time, she’d assumed he’d been a Western soldier who’d swapped sides, despite the grandiose story that everyone liked to play up—the idea that he was the New Soviet Man, reified by technology and built to serve the glory of Communism.

Even at the time, Natasha had called bullshit.

She didn’t really have much time to ponder why he’d been circumcised, or when, before he rubbed the head of his cock over her opening, smearing the collected semen around. He rubbed it along the inside of her labia, then against her clit, and a spark raced through her.

It had been a while, since they’d done this.

“Soldat, privyet, bayushki bayu,” Natasha tried. Nothing happened, of course. “Soldat, Moskva gorit.”

Still nothing.

“Get on with it,” Rumlow called out. “Fuck her hard.”

The Soldier thrust into her obediently, slow but deliberate. She couldn’t read him behind the mask; his hair covered enough of his face that she could only barely see his eyes. “Soldat, Cheburashka i krokodil Gena,” Natasha said, grasping at straws, but—nothing.

He brought the metal hand around between them and set it on her throat.

Distantly, Natasha could hear someone asking, “Woah, is he supposed to do that?” but she couldn’t focus on anything else. The metal fingers squeezed the sides of her throat, where the blood was, and she gasped when his grip tightened.

She could still breathe. Even though her brain was telling her she was choking, she could still breathe. He was only cutting off the blood flow.

Like a kink in a garden hose.

There was an undeniable heat building between her legs as he continued to thrust into her, alternating squeezing his hand on her throat and rubbing over her clit with his right hand. Natasha gasped, her heart pounding against her will—she couldn’t get rid of the sensations, she couldn’t stop feeling them, she couldn’t—

She could convincingly fake an orgasm, all the way down to the muscle spasms and the pleasure-induced flush, but she couldn’t fake that she _hadn’t_ come, if she did.

His thumb was still rubbing steadily against her. She could see his eyes narrow above the mask: he was concentrating.

Fuck.

Natasha rolled her head to the side as best she could with his metal hand still around her throat, squeezing her eyes shut and trying to think of something else, anything else, so she wouldn’t come. He was still fucking her, thrusting rhythmically in and out in time with the pulsing on her neck and the finger on her clit, and it was too much, it was too much, it was too—

The friction peaked, white-hot, and she tumbled over the edge, breath catching in her throat as her muscles clenched around his cock.

He continued fucking her through the climax as though nothing had happened; she couldn’t even tell if he’d noticed. The other men certainly hadn’t—they didn’t react at all. The pleasure was rapidly receding, replaced once again with the soreness from the previous rapes, and even the Soldier’s hand around her throat wasn’t enough to distract her.

“Snegurachka,” she wheezed, last-ditch. “Morozko...”

Nothing.

Natasha gritted her teeth against the roaring in her ears. She wanted to scream, to tear her skin off, to slam her entire body against a wall. The Soldier’s thumb was still on her clit despite the overstimulation, and if he didn’t stop soon she’d come again, even though it’d only been two minutes at most, she didn’t want another orgasm, she wanted it to stop, she couldn’t handle it, she couldn’t take it, please, _please_ —

The Soldier stopped.

Natasha gasped, eyes streaming, but he was only coming: what little of his expression she could see didn’t change as his cock pulsed inside her, releasing yet more spurts of heat. Natasha made a noise somewhere between a moan and a wail when his hand flexed one more time before he released her and pulled out.

A gush of semen followed; her muscles spasmed around nothing.

Dimly, Natasha registered that her nose was running. She was leaking fluids everywhere, she thought, almost hysterically. The Soldier was fastening the front of his black tac pants. Rumlow was holding a gun again, pointed at the floor of the truck—

Wait.

Fuck it: the only way to win was to have nothing to lose.

She was more valuable than any of the men in this truck, with the possible exception of the Soldier, and there was no way Rumlow didn’t know it.

Why else would he have avoided using a knife on her? She wasn’t stupid.

The gun was pointed at the floor—

Natasha reared her head back and slammed it into the knee of one of the men holding her—Harris, who had swapped with Anders so they could both rape her at different times—Harris yelled, grip on her arm relaxing for only a fraction of a second, but that was all Natasha needed.

She grabbed wildly between his legs and dug her fingers into the first soft thing she found. Harris roared—success—and Natasha flipped to the side, flailing her legs randomly as a distraction—there! She brought her fist down on the elbow of the man holding her other arm—right on the ulnar nerve—and he released her as well.

Now she had her arms back.

Harris was bent over, cupping his over-sensitive groin; it was the easiest thing in the world to snatch his sidearm and slam it into the bridge of his nose. He collapsed like a bag of bricks, and Natasha braced herself against the floor of the truck and kicked both legs with all her strength.

Two direct hits: the men pinning her stumbled back, hands flying up to their eyes—she could see blood; good—it had taken all of three seconds, but now she was on her feet, unrestrained, with a gun in her hand.

There was no time to wonder about if the noise would alert the attention of the driver. Natasha spun without hesitation and shot Harris through the forehead, then Anders—both crumpled with satisfying sprays of blood and brains, at such a short distance.

Everyone was yelling. Rumlow fired his own weapon—the stinging _smack_ went into Natasha’s left calf, but she barely felt it—the adrenaline was burning every inch of her, and she was enhanced, even if Rumlow didn’t know it—she could tear them all to pieces with her bare hands and walk away without batting an eyelash.

Fuck them. Who the fuck did they think they were?

She was the Black Widow.

She could eat them all for _lunch_.

She ignored the agony in her muscles and leapt, catching Rollins around the throat and dragging him down. The barrel of her gun punched into his jaw, and she heard something crack—also good—even if he weren’t dead, he’d be on his way there.

Another shot to the chest of the other man who’d been holding her legs, the one with blood pouring from his eyes where her toes had sunk in—

That was all of them except for Rumlow and the Soldier, and Rumlow was grabbing for her.

Natasha snarled in his face and slammed her forehead into his.

He staggered back, looking dazed.

That sick little coil of anger was back. She’d always had a strong skull, even without the enhancements. There was now, finally, fear in his eyes. He was beginning to realize how badly he'd fucked up. Sticking your dick in a bomb was a sure-fire way to get blown to hell. But there was no time to indulge the way she wanted to—she’d take a rain check. The Black Widow was one patient little piece of ass. The Black Widow knew how to lie in wait for a victim. She was a precise, calculating, stone-cold _cunt_.

“Beddy-bye, Brock,” Natasha cooed, syrup-sweet, and pistol-whipped him hard enough that she saw a tooth go flying when he collapsed.

Now.

The Soldier.

Natasha was panting when she aimed her gun at him: he hadn’t moved to stop her. He could have killed her within a second if he’d been under orders to eliminate that particular threat, but he hadn’t; she wasn’t stupid enough to assume, foolishly romantic, that he recognized her.

No, it just meant HYDRA didn’t want her dead yet.

“I don’t want to fight you,” Natasha said. She let her shoulders sag, lowering the gun. “I need your help. I need clothes.” The truck was still driving, but that meant nothing about whether or not the driver was aware of the situation. “I need to get to someone with an internet connection—I need bandages...”

The Soldier stepped forward, hesitant. He had a pair of reinforced mag cuffs in his metal hand.

Of course they wouldn’t stick to the nonferrous metal, Natasha thought sourly. “I’ll go quietly,” she promised, “just, please, help me—please...”

One more step—holding up the cuffs for her to extend her wrists for him—and she lunged forward and bit down on his hand, hard enough to break the skin and trigger the electrical pulse concealed inside her fake canine.

Even the Soldier wasn’t immune to such a high charge: he dropped instantly.

And then it was over.

Natasha stumbled to the wall of the truck and leaned against it, breathing heavily. So: she needed a plan. She needed exfil, but she didn’t have exfil; she was on her own. She had a gun. She didn’t know where she was—how long she’d been unconscious.

She stripped the Soldier, because she couldn’t bring herself to touch Rumlow or the others. She kicked Rumlow in the face, satisfied when she heard the crunch of breaking cartilage. She tugged on the Soldier’s black undershirt and underwear—none of the tac pants would fit her—and ignored the slimy disgusting mess still dripping from between her legs.

Okay.

She could do this.

Natasha stuck the gun between her thigh and the leg of the Soldier’s underwear, and dragged the chain-lock from the back truck doors. She flung the doors open: the highway, grey asphalt, empty of vehicles, stretching out beyond her.

Fuck, this was going to _hurt_.

Okay.

Okay. She could do this. She _had_ to do this.

Natasha gritted her teeth and flung herself out of the moving truck towards the highway.

**Author's Note:**

> Not that it should matter, but I am a sexual assault survivor, and I frankly do not give a fuck what anyone thinks I should or shouldn't be writing about. This is not romanticized. It is rape. If you find stories about horrible things intriguing or arousing, like I do, then I'm in your corner! If you think it's any of your business what I like, or you think it's your moral duty to inform me of what a horrible person I am, then I sincerely hope you fuck off. I have no patience for negativity. If you don't have anything nice to say, shut up.


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